On What Wings?
by Lady Nightspike
Summary: This is a short little encounter between Sephiroth and Vincent down in that basement, pregame. As much as you may or may not like it, no slash. Their topic of dicussion? Cloud Strife. Some angst, but the mood is mostly expectant.


I'm pleased to make my debut with this story. Before you read on, a few points:

I do not own anything, hence, _fan_ fiction. The prose style is supposed to be surreal, but if you notice any typos or stupid errors, please tell me. Review if you're in the mood. Flames will be employed in Kefka's next barbeque. This story seems pretty flame-retardant, though.

* * *

**On What Wings?**

A nightmare. A dream. Something...more.

The harsh light. His eyes open snapped. He was treading in the waters of the unreal, the surreal. His true love, Lucrecia, was beside him, though he had a feeling that this dream was of a different timbre.

"Look, Vincent," said Lucrecia, her eyes full of promises that glittered like tears.

Vincent looked. Lucrecia often pointed out things that caught her eye- people laughing, people smiling, the simple joys he'd had for only a short while- and made him watch, to respect their happiness and wish it was his own, even though with her, he was satisfied.

"Who?" he asked, for this scene was nothing familiar.

"There," she said, a secret smile, "is your destiny."

He was young, brave but somehow reserved, tall, striding through a field. His sword sang in his hands, a dark beacon of light. Hair the color of silver and eyes too green for blue. He was unfinished, waiting for a time that had not arrived.

Beside him was a small blonde boy, who struggled with his own sword with half-closed eyes. Shy but determined, sunlit wonder flickering across his face. Eyes of poet blue, every word written for him. He too waited for what was coming.

"My...destiny?" Vincent wondered how his destiny was a duet of silver and gold.

"His name," she said, grinning proudly, "is Sephiroth." His hair roared with fire and razed a town, colours warm and glowing, chaos complete; was it...Nibelheim?

"And the child?"

Roughly. "He's not important," and he stared at her in confusion. He felt affronted by her tossed-out comment. The boy had no name, no weight enough to bear down on Lucrecia's flighty soul. But so were all souls, he realized, in the end.

So he willed her soul down with his eyes. He looked and looked until he discovered that the man in Lucrecia's vision stood before him, scrutinizing him.

"So Hojo thinks he is god, after all. How could he have made such horrors as are we, and yet made Cloud?"

Cloud? And the angel had a name, at last.

"Did he who made the lamb, make thee?" quoted Vincent.

Sephiroth laughed. "And here I thought no one spoke that language anymore."

"Old English? It's a scholar's language."

He knew Sephiroth had something to ask him. Prompted, "Who is Cloud?" even though he knew the answer.

Closed his eyes. "A spectre over my shoulder, always, my wings. He is coming here, to Nibelheim, the beginning of it all. Watch, and you will see our future unfolding in the shadow of the past."

Time had no meaning, but Vincent watched.

Beaten as a child, not by sadistic parents but by everyone else. All against him. They waited in dark places with darker intents, watching for him so they could spring, unexpected. A bully in his neighborhood decided to pick on him. "What's your problem, freak?"

A girl, eyes full of spite, laughed at his shyness, slapped the hand he extended in friendship and wounded the heart within. He learned to never associate with anyone, to guard his back and run.

His mother singing to him, caring for him, but never a father. The shame it brought upon him, especially when he was old enough to understand.

"Don't worry about him," said an older man, tenderly scooping up the girl who lay beside him. Cloud's mother, frantic with grief, unable to find him. A voice: "I'll help you." Kind souls were rare.

Jealous schoolmates changed to jealous soldiers. A 'friend' sabotaged Cloud's SOLDIER entrance exam. Cloud stayed up late scanning the newspaper for articles about Sephiroth. Cloud stayed up late for glimpses of the famous general. By night, he roamed the complex freely; by day, he cowered, always running.

"He's crazy!" shouted one of the soldiers, so Cloud charged him, eyes of anger bearing down. An ugly man in a beautiful uniform. "What kind of favours have you done him?" Laughter.

Out in the rain, the snow, singing songs his mother gave him, keys to his soul.

Two black-haired men, one a victim, one vicious. Hojo- whose very presence in this dream almost made Vincent rise screaming death and bloody pain for what he'd done to her, to him...and of course all in the name of science- kicking Cloud and screaming, "You are a failure," though it was he who had taken him, taken them all and made them what they were. Monsters? Perhaps. But...this one was an example of what they should be, taking his punishment with fragile stoicism, while the quiet one watched from a corner, eyes black with concern.

Horrors paced in the wide circles of his eyes as he burst from an old mansion, fled from Hojo's lab. The other soldier made sure he didn't stumble.

On a train, ruined. Eyes and soul broken, and a longing written in his veins, the cursེd hope- someday, may I die- that Vincent loved too well. Bloody tatters hung about him; his feverish eyes sought memory's sanctuary rather than face the world.

"Mother?" he whispered. Someone on the train looked at him and made a comment to his goony friends. They laughed, but not loud enough to bring Cloud to his senses.

An alley. "Damn you, Sephiroth!" he screamed at the toughs who'd led him into the darkness. His sword killed four spectre Sephiroths then, and cried as he found the last good set of clothes from the spilled pack. It was the other man's uniform, a bullet hole or two in the heart.

Vincent wanted to scream:

DON'T

RUIN

HIS

INNOCENCE

but all he would hear was an echo. If that.

"Do you see now, Vincent?"

He saw. Sephiroth. Lucrecia's son. His soul? As flighty as his mother's, but somewhat darker in complexion. Vincent refused to acknowledge the father, the beast, the empty heart and overripe mind that had made him. He had failed her miserably, and the other had moved in, intent upon covering her with his decay. "I betrayed my own love in death. I would fail him, too."

"Can you keep him? Shepherd him?"

"I cannot keep myself from the shadows."

"Will you do it? Can you do it?" Masamune flew to his throat in an arc of promises that could yet still be fulfilled. "I can find someone else. But I cannot find someone else who understands."

From the blossom of his memory, Lucrecia asked, "Why guard him when you can find your destiny here?" But Cloud was the broken one, the one who needed to find his fate, and Vincent had the crook and the wisdom, and the benevolence, and the power...

The sword dug in. The world changed. Vincent knew that sweet oblivion was only a thrust away, but he knew his body would betray him and cling to the need. If he met death, he _would_ have to struggle first. A thought as inevitable as the future itself.

"I will," he said. "I will not let anyone down again. Except Hojo...when he sees that I still survive."

Sephiroth sheathed his sword. Vincent started to ask for an explanation, but Sephiroth put a finger to his lips, as if someone were listening, watching. Eyes too blue for green spoke mysteries.

"What dread grasp/ Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"

"Terrors?"

"Yes, Vincent Valentine. When the stars throw down their spears, I will be waiting." Impassioned eyes pleaded: be what I cannot. His hands were tied with some other dark purpose, and he could not let Cloud go without aid.

Vincent almost couldn't be that aid. But the tender voice of the lamb made him agree with the tiger. He was brave enough to try. Had Hojo realized what miracle he had created? A thing of beauty from tainted, hideous hands. Did he smile his work to see? Or had he seen it at all? Or had he just been upset that Cloud wasn't the perfect warrior? Neither was Sephiroth, for that matter.

"Stop me from flying," said Sephiroth.

"Yes," he breathed, and heaven thrived on tears.

Tiger's tears shed from grateful beryl eyes. "I hope he understands..."

He would.

And Lucrecia was pleased. Her son would not face the future alone. She smiled gently, whispered, "Thank you."

"He comes now," said Sephiroth. "Ready your wings, Vincent, and prepare to meet your fate."

His eyes snapped open in the darkness. A dream. A nightmare. Nothing more.

* * *

Anyway, I hope you liked it. I also forgot somehow to mention that the title and several of the more metaphoric lines that Seph and Vincent throw at each other are from William Blake's poem _the Tyger. _C'mon, say it with me: Tyger, tyger, burning bright... 


End file.
